


I Bare My Soul on These Pages

by bettymeow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:30:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettymeow/pseuds/bettymeow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The absolute worst nightmare for any artist is when someone gets ahold of your sketchbook; and not just any sketchbook—the sketchbook. </p><p>     You know, the one you grab when you’re feeling extra shitty, or ecstatic, or even anxious. The one whose pages have withstood endless tears after someone broke your heart. The who whose pages tore from the sheer ferocity of your pen gouging into it while rage dripped out of every pore in your skin. The one whose pages allowed you to caress it while you drew, painted, and created a masterpiece with the most tender heart.</p><p>     That sketchbook.</p><p>     Well, currently, Clarke was living this nightmare; a blush blooming across her cheeks as she watched in fear while Bellamy Blake turned through that sketchbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Bare My Soul on These Pages

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first bellarke little snippet so bear with me! hope you like it. :)

     “Check under my bed!”

     “How did I suddenly become your personal bitch boy?” Bellamy mused under his breath, huffing a sigh as he peered into the unknown of Under Clarke’s Bed.  
  


     There were few things that frightened Bellamy Blake—many of which he wouldn’t admit to for he was known to save face. But one fear in particular always reared it’s ugly head, and that was Clarke’s bedroom.

     Bear in mind, Clarke Griffin was the type to walk around campus with paint smeared all over her face without thinking twice about it; something that Bellamy never failed to crack a grin at—it was quite a sight to see. With that, one could only imagine the erratic state of this girl’s bedroom. Her floor was non-existent; every square inch of it was hidden by clothes. Paint splatters covered her once-white walls; and dirty cups of water found themselves precariously perched on every flat, questionably sturdy surface imaginable.  
  


     Bellamy said a silent prayer as he reached into what he assumed was the equivalent of hell, and hesitantly felt around for Clarke’s notebook. They were going to be late to Botany class, and she was currently preoccupied with scrubbing her hands free of charcoal blotches. The professor specifically asked that Clarke makes sure she doesn’t stain her lab report again, or she would lower her grade drastically—something Clarke continuously bitched and moaned about over drinks one night. _She's limiting my creativity, Bell!_

     Bell grabbed onto the first thing that semi-felt like a notebook and yanked it out of the darkness; his brows crinkled when he found himself faced with a faux leather-bound sketchbook. He knew that Clarke’s notebook was green for Botany—how original. But he has never seen this one before; it didn’t look like the sketchbook she carried around everywhere she went. He peered over his shoulder, confident in the sight of the empty doorway and the sound of the sink still running. He bit his lip and flipped open the cover, finding a detailed sketch of one of Clarke’s exes, Finn Collins. He was fixated on something just off of the page, and Bellamy was trying to guess what was causing Finn’s eyes to seemingly drown in his own pain. The brunette licked his lips and continued to sift through the pages, finding some blank, some filled with scribbles, and others covered with profanity and smiley faces. As he turned the page, he heard a soft gasp behind him.

     “Where did you get that?” Clarke asked, a look of pure terror flooding her face.

     “Under your bed, where you ordered me to look,” Bellamy replied sporting a curious eyebrow raise, “How come I’ve never seen this before?”

     Clarke stomped over and struggled to get her sketchbook back, “—‘cuz I don’t show anyone this sketchbook. Now hand it over, Blake.”

     “Not a chance in hell, Princess. There’s some amazing stuff in here,” he admitted, a soft smile toying on his full lips.

     Clarke huffed and folded her arms across her chest, “Yeah, great, thanks. Now give me my sketchbook.”

     Bellamy chuckled at the venom in her tone and he moved to sit on her surprisingly clear bed, “What’s there to hide? Especially from me, you’re supposed _best friend_.”

     The blonde wanted to smack that smirk right off of Bellamy’s smug face. She held her hand out expectantly, “Give it to me.”

     Bellamy shook his head and slowly turned another page, not breaking eye contact with Clarke, “Oops.”  
  


     The absolute worst nightmare for any artist is when someone gets ahold of your sketchbook; and not just any sketchbook— _the_ sketchbook.

     You know, the one you grab when you’re feeling extra shitty, or ecstatic, or anxious. The one whose pages have withstood endless tears after someone broke your heart. The who whose pages tore from the sheer ferocity of your pen gouging into it while rage dripped out of every pore in your skin. The one whose pages allowed you to caress it while you created a masterpiece with the most tender heart.

 _That_ sketchbook.

     Well, currently, Clarke was living this nightmare; a blush blooming across her cheeks as she watched in fear while Bellamy Blake turned through _that_ sketchbook.  
  


     “Please, Bell,” Clarke whispered, her eyes falling on her sketchbook.

     He now was admiring an intimate sketch of Lexa, whom Clarke drew while she dozed off after they made love in the early morning. It still made her heart ache a little at the sight of Lexa’s face, rarely so off-guard and open as it was in that moment. Bellamy had a soft smile on his lips, something that made Clarke’s heart flutter with fondness. Whenever someone found this sketchbook, she would wrestle it out of anyone’s grip before they could peek inside. She had to protect it—she had to protect her heart. But, while she stood watching Bellamy glide through the sketchbook, tenderly flipping each page with a soft smile on his beautiful lips, she didn’t feel that urgent need to lash out. She didn’t feel like she had to protect herself. Her heart felt safe in his gentle hands.

     There was just _one_ little piece that she didn't want Bell to see. One specific sketch that _may or may not_ be of Bellamy himself.  One sketch that she wasn’t quite ready to explain to him yet. And seeing as how he was currently on the page before it, she didn’t have much time to work with.

     “Clarke, these are magnificent,” Bellamy hummed, his voice in that soft tone he only used with her.

     He looked up and the sincerity in his eyes made her bite her lip and naturally gravitate towards him.

     She smiled softly despite the heavy sigh that escaped her lungs when she sat down next to him, “Thank you.”

     “I’m serious, Clarke. I see why you changed majors—art is really your thing,” he urged, his smile growing wider, “You’re really talented.”  
  


     She couldn’t ignore the urge to kiss that bright smile, to thank him silently for all of the support he’s shown her over the years. For being there when no one else was. For believing in her when no one else did. For treating her as if she were just as important as Octavia. For just being him. The history loving, sometimes douche, usually tender and loving nerd that he was. Yeah, she could definitely kiss that into his skin.  
  


     “Bell, the next sketch is…” she trailed off and pursed her lips, “—just don’t think I’m a weirdo, okay?”

     Bellamy’s jaw ticked as he caressed the corner of the page, extremely tempted to see why the next sketch that was bothering her so much, “That doesn’t sound so reassuring to me.”

     Clarke laughed softly and bit her lip, playfully nudging his arm, “Just look. I know you’re dying to see.”

     Bellamy cracked a crooked grin and looked back down at her sketchbook as he turned the page. He blinked rapidly at the sight before him—himself. He was lounging in a sun chair, clad only in his navy blue swim trunks. He had his arm thrown over his eyes and the sun was glistening off his chest and abdomen. He glanced at Clarke, finding her face glowing the prettiest shade of red. He chuckled and looked back down at the page, drinking in the picture before him. He couldn’t believe the detail she put into her artwork, noting the freakishly accurate map of freckles across his cheeks; or the wanes and curves of his muscles and wild curls. She even captured the exact shade of his skin tone. It was remarkable, and quite endearing to know that she had focused so carefully on him to know these otherwise minute details; but she made these details important enough to include in her super secret sketchbook, that also dawned the faces of the two people who broke the very heart that they promised to put back together. Bellamy now lived and breathed in her sketchbook, the sketchbook, and he couldn’t thank her enough for that privilege.

     “Well?” she asked sheepishly.

     Bellamy shook his head incredulously, “Wow.”

     She let out a sigh of relief, “I can settle for wow.”

     He chuckled softly, “Its more than wow. It’s—wow.”

     “Wow is more than wow. Duly noted,” Clarke teased with a grin.

     “I’m honored to have made it in here,” he whispered as he traced his fingers across the page.  
  


     He watched as her gaze fell onto his hand caressing her creation. Her eyes were radiating with pure love, which sent tingles dancing across his forearms. He had seen Clarke look at Finn and Lexa like that. And had spent many nights praying that she’d someday share that look with him. And she finally was. She was smiling and her hand found his thigh and gave it a soft squeeze.  


     “Definitely my favorite one in there,” she admitted quietly.

     “I can model for you whenever you’d like,” he teased, turning his head to press a gentle kiss in her hair.

     Clarke blushed again and leaned into Bellamy’s side, “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re vain?”

     He grinned as he wrapped his arm around her and chuckled, “Well, I _am_ a work of art now, Princess.”

     “That is true,” Clarke agreed with a giggle as she tiptoed her fingers along the back of his hand, “You know that we’re super late to Botany now, right?”

     “Fuck Botany. I want you to paint me like one of your French girls, Clarke,” he teased before dramatically falling back onto her bed.


End file.
